


I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, Fluffy, M/M, Pining, Semi Canon-Compliant AU, Slow burn/Slow build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 14:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>came up with this au idea and decided it needed to be written:</p>
<p>random au idea where spock is working as a waiter in a nice (if slightly seedy) bar/restaurant and he works nights bc of the academy and he’s kind of enamored w/ the guy who comes in every couple days and plays guitar and sings on the little stage in the corner (or, well, he’d be enamored, if vulcans could be) ((ok he’s totally enamored but if anyone asks spock does not care abt the guy ok he doesn’t))</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> i saw star trek: beyond recently and decided that spones needs to take over my life, apparently. that being said, i've only just begun to work my way thru TOS and i'll openly admit to not knowing a lot abt the more complex canon of star trek (literally all i know i've gleaned from the recent movies, and what i've read in fics). so here's a silly little au, that's technically semi canon compliant. for more info abt the au itself, check out the end notes!

When the door of the bar opens with a chime and soft hiss, Spock tilts his head get a glimpse of who is walking in. It’s a habit, born from how he was raised and a persistent, if quiet desire to do his job well. He’s a waiter, busboy, and occasionally a bartender all rolled into one—knowing who has strolled in for the evening is imperative to him successfully doing and therefore keeping his job.

Not that he needs the job, necessarily. He isn’t, as Jim might say, the ‘starving artist’ type. Far from it. Spock is comfortably well off and his father extends aid whenever possible, despite the fact Spock is here, and not on Vulcan. It may be illogical, Spock knows, but he enjoys the sense of responsibility this job imbues him with; he enjoys the independence he feels being away from home and supporting himself.

Spock comes back to himself as he finally registers who, exactly, has walked in so late in the evening. He allows himself the smallest of smiles, just a barely-there quirking at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t know the man’s name, but he knows the man is a regular, a fixture here at the bar. Every other night or so, the man walks in looking pleasantly tired, gruff and covered in prickly stubble on his jawline, a little unkempt but not unattractively so—the man walks in with a guitar at his side and a lilt in his step that speaks both to mild inebriation, and confidence in his abilities.

The man has never spoken to Spock; in fact, Spock has never seen the man speak directly to anyone, only to the audience of the bar as a whole when the man steps up to the microphone. Despite this, the owner of the establishment assured Spock that a couple fingers of scotch or a healthy dose of brandy would never be unwelcome from the man. Spock, arms full of dishes to be cleaned, abandons his task of clearing tables to deposit his bin of dishes at the sink, then slips to the bar to get said drink for said man.

In the meantime—as Spock peruses the selection of alcohol and wonders if the man has tried all they have to offer yet—the man sets up on the little rickety stool on the stage. He pulls out his guitar, runs through his usual “testing, testing, one two, one two” procedure, and strums a few warm up chords with what Spock imagines are well-calloused fingertips.

Spock can’t help but feel the tips of his pointed ears flush as he carries a small tumbler of brandy to the man. As Spock gets closer, he reasons that the darker green blush staining his ears isn’t even likely to be noticeable in the low lights of the bar. Once at the edge of the stage, Spock bends at the waist to set the glass down with a soft _clink_. The man grins, nods his head in thanks, but never once speaks directly to Spock.

Spock tells himself it’s not disappointment blooming in his chest—disappointment implies hoping for something and not receiving it, which is an emotion he knows well enough he ought not to be having. He is comforted though as the man’s voice croons over the speakers for the rest of the night. Spock knows from his research that the man only plays songs from the twentieth and sometimes twenty-first century. Spock doesn’t know any of the words, and the man has yet to play the same song twice since Spock first started the job, but he enjoys the performance none the less.

 

When closing time finally rolls around, there are only two people left in the audience besides Spock and his fellow employees. The kitchen is clean for the night, and last call had been about thirty minutes prior. Spock watches, having already cleaned the emptied tables twice over, as the man continues to sing, almost as if his words are guiding their last few patrons out the door. The two—not a pair, but leaning on one another all the same—stumble out into the chilly air and only after the door hisses shut behind them does the man stop singing.

The man reaches for his water bottle now, and Spock watches the man’s Adam’s apple bob with his swallows. Again, the tips of Spock’s ears burn. Without saying anything else, the man begins to pack up. He stretches his fingers once his guitar is back in its case, even goes so far as to crack his knuckles and let out a barely audible sigh of relief. (Spock is certain he’s the only one who heard it given his heightened senses, and Spock can only just find it in himself to deny the small burst of delight the knowledge gives him.)

The man, once he’s ready to leave and has drained the last sip of brandy from his glass, gives the bartender a polite nod. Then his gaze slides to Spock, and lingers. Spock stares back just as heavy and can’t even begin to ignore the increase in his pulse when the man smiles at him, nods—a softer, more genuine and less than simply functional gesture—before departing.

Spock watches him go and only looks away when the bartender coughs none too subtly. Spock doesn’t glare, only shoots a disdainful work at his coworker, and is more than displeased when it only garners a teasing chuckle.

-

“Spock, honestly, next time the guy comes in, you should just _talk_ to him.” Jim’s head lolls—his friend is drunk, not unpleasantly so, but it’s not Spock’s favorite way of dealing with Jim—and he flashes a grin at Spock, bright and alluring. “That’s the logical thing to do, isn’t it?”

Spock doesn’t admit that Jim is correct; that would surely go to his friend’s head, and Spock won’t have that weighing on his conscience.

-

Spock had long ago resolved himself to being something of an anomaly. Some might even say it was meant to be, his destiny or some other such quantification. Being half human and half Vulcan has always kept him in a unique position, not quite fitting in with either race as much as he would like to. It had been with the help of Jim and Uhura—Spock’s closest and perhaps only friends—that Spock had settled into his void of obscurity, rather than letting it consume him.

Spock knows he’s an oddity, and he has chosen to embrace it as best he can. He balances the qualities of each species entwined in his DNA, and feels gratified taking pieces from each culture and not giving himself entirely away to one or the other. This is why Spock had never given in to his father’s wish for an arranged marriage on Vulcan, but also why Spock did not throw himself into a string of ‘hook ups’ like Jim. He exists somewhere in a limbo between his halves, but it’s not a terrible existence. Far from it.

Usually.

 

Spock curses everything he was taught on Vulcan when his tongue seems to be in knots the next time the man comes to the bar. Spock can feel a nagging voice in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like his father, reciting everything about control, about restriction. Accompanying the haunting voice is a sense of cowardice as well, and it burns like acid in Spock’s gut.

The man is _right there_ , and he keeps glancing at Spock in a way that turns the acid in his stomach to what he might consider ‘butterflies’. It makes his stomach feel light, makes his whole body feel warm and soft and he marvels at the sensations.

But the man makes no move to speak directly to Spock no matter how their gazes linger on one another. Spock makes no move, either, so the night hangs uneasily between them.

-

“Spock, _Spock_ ,” Jim isn’t drunk this time, but he’s no less prying and no less full of ideas. He’s leaning over the back of Spock’s chair and chattering incessantly. Spock doesn’t mind the buzz of Jim’s voice, per se, more so he minds what it is Jim is talking about. “People don’t just stare longingly at each other from across a dimly-lit room for the hell of it, Spock.”

Spock keeps his eyes focused on his work.

“He clearly thinks you’re attractive, Spock,” Jim continues, “just talk to him.”

“As I have already stated, Jim, I have taken your exceptionally profound advice into consideration.” Spock tilts his head to look at Jim from the corner of his eyes.

Jim’s eyes simply narrow and if possible he crowds Spock’s personal space even more. “It’s been weeks, Spock. _Weeks_.”

Spock doesn’t bother pointing out that he knows exactly how long it’s been since he brought up the matter of the man at the bar. Spock doesn’t point out that his attraction to said man had been carrying on for some time before Spock brought it up to Jim. Instead, Spock decides to start counting how many time Jim says his name over the rest of his badgering, and considers it an exercise both in patience and focus.

-

Spock stops by the bar on a rare night off and diligently ignores the amused look the owner gives him. By the time Spock arrives—to pick up his scarf he left behind the night before, truly—the man is already at the stage and singing, strumming. The man’s eyes snap to Spock the moment he steps in and Spock feels the back of his neck burn with a blush. He maintains eye contacts for a precise number of seconds before looking away first, smiling minutely, before moving to retrieve his scarf. It’s not especially chilled outside, but he layers the soft and well-worn fabric around his neck and shoulders. As he reaches the door to depart, he catches the man’s eyes again, and lets his gaze linger before letting the door shut behind him.

-

Spock is buzzed as he sits beside Jim in the latter’s quarters. Jim is stone cold sober in contrast, and it makes Spock feel all the more unkempt in comparison. “I just do not understand, Jim.”

“I think you understand perfectly, Spock, I think you’re just scared.” The holovid plays on before them and illuminates their faces but neither pays it any mind. “Which, hey, I understand. I mean, okay, you don’t actually know the guy—you don’t even know his name—but, I know it can be scary to feel… so deeply.” Jim looks pensive for a moment.

Spock counters the moment with a raised eyebrow and nothing more.

“Hey, I’ve felt deeply before,” Jim retorts when faced with Spock’s expression.

Spock knows now is the moment someone else might make a lewd remark about what, exactly, Jim has felt so deeply, but Spock finds he doesn’t have the energy or desire to do so. Instead he sinks into the counter more thoroughly and gropes lazily for the blanket he knows hangs along the back of the couch.

“Spock, you gotta do this, just put yourself out there.” Jim’s voice is insistent even as Spock feels the soft tendrils of sleep tugging at his mind. He mildly regrets accepting Jim’s offer of the chocolate bar, regrets even more eating so much of it before thinking better of it. “I have faith in you, Spock,” Jim declares as he slaps his hand against Spock’s arm. “I’ll let you sleep on it.”

Spock’s last thought as he drifts off is how grateful he is to have Jim for a friend, all things considered.

-

Uhura levels him with an incredulous and amused look. Her lips are pursed in a way Spock has always found endearing, and he idly misses what they had. It’s like a distant memory now, their relationship, and Spock knows they are better off like this. Given how things have been going with the man at the bar though Spock feels like his life would’ve been considerably easier had he and Nyota been able to work things out.

“You’re telling me that you’ve been confiding in _Kirk_ about a crush you have on some mystery man?” She asks.

Spock opens his mouth to inform her just how lurid she makes the whole situation sound, but she cuts across him.

“You realize what a monumentally ridiculous idea that was, right?”

“He was suitably confident in my ability to seduce the man,” Spock argues with no heat.

Uhura grins. “Well of course he does, he’s your best friend.”

“Are you saying you do not have confidence in my abilities?”

She rolls her eyes ever so slightly. “I never said that.” She leans forward with her elbows pressed into the table. “But it doesn’t sound like Jim has been especially helpful.”

Spock fights the urge to shrink in his seat, to cower or withdraw into himself. “It is not that his input has been unhelpful, so much as…”

“So much as you still haven’t worked up the nerve to actually act on it.”

Spock lets no sort of emotion bleed into the look he gives his friend. She knows she’s right, Spock doesn’t need to make a disgruntled face or heave a sigh to tell her that.

“So what’s holding you back?”

“I do not… truly know.” Spock replies.

Uhura simply nods in understanding. “I’m not really sure this is something Jim or I can help you out with.”

Spock nods this time before straightening his posture. With a brief and quiet gulp of his nerves, he pulls his padd closer and flips through the screen until he lands on his most recent work. “You had mentioned…”

-

When it all finally comes to a head it is, unsurprisingly, entirely Jim’s fault.

-

Spock stands in line with his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his coat and his scarf curled around his chin to keep back the chill from outside. Beyond the door of the café, there’s a soft amount of snow flittering about and clinging to the ground. As someone who already struggles with how much cooler Earth’s temperature is compared to Vulcan, winter is doubly as trying and has Spock both flushed high in his cheeks and feeling admittedly sour.

He perks up as the line shuffles forward and a familiar voice catches his ear.

“M’telling you, Bones, you got the degree and you’re not doing anything with it. Why not join Starfleet?” It’s Jim’s voice, Spock knows in an instant, and it’s a tone that sounds perilously familiar to the way Jim pesters Spock. Especially when Jim pesters him about the man in the bar. “You need to get out more, Bones, I worry about you.”

There’s a gruff bark of bitter laughter before ‘Bones’ responds. “And I’m telling you, Jim,” he answers in a sharp voice, “leave it be, dammit.”

Spock lets himself tune out of the conversation as he steps up to order and pay for his drinks, but rather than moving to where a crowd has gathered to wait for their drinks, Spock seeks out Jim and ‘Bones.’

“Spock!” Jim spots him in the same moment Spock does. “Spock, c’mere!” Jim gestures him over hurriedly and Spock obeys, though his gaze slides from the familiar face of Jim to—another familiar face, actually.

The man—Bones, Spock assumes—chokes on his sip of his drink and slams his fist against the table as he catches his breath. Jim turns from ushering Spock over to check on his friend, slightly amused. “Dammit man!” Bones snaps as he pushes at Jim’s concerned touch with a voice raw from coughing. Eventually, the man’s glare at Jim subsides and instead he looks at Spock.

Spock meets his gaze but otherwise gives nothing away in his expression. He breaks away when his name is called, his drink ready, but returns to the table as quick as he can despite the nerves buzzing under his skin. In his absence, Jim has fallen silent as well and doesn’t even pipe up when Spock takes a seat at the table opposite Jim and ‘Bones.’

“Spock?” Jim is, of course, first to break the silence. “What’s, uh. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, Jim.” Spock answers without looking away from ‘Bones.’ “I do not believe you’ve introduced us properly.”

“Oh, well, this is Bones—er, Leonard McCoy, but I just call him Bones. It’s a long story.” Jim rattles on and immediately dives into the story of how he and McCoy met, how he’s been trying to convince McCoy to join Starfleet, and a variety of other things Spock respectfully doesn’t care to listen to.

“Say, Spock,” McCoy interrupts Jim’s rambling. His drawl is the same one Spock has heard several times over the past few months, though now it’s no longer marred with the static of a microphone or accompanied by the tones of a guitar. “Don’t you work at the bar up the road?”

Spock arches a single eyebrow. “I do,” Spock replies. His throat feels dry. “And don’t you,” Spock pauses, “ _Leonard_ , don’t you come in every so often and regale the crowd with your outdated songs?”

This time, it’s Jim who chokes on his drink. “Wait wait wait a damn minute!” Jim whips his gaze from Spock, to McCoy, and back and forth and back and forth until McCoy slaps him upside the head. “Bones is your mystery man, Spock?!”

McCoy’s lips curl in amusement. “Mystery man, huh?” He relaxes in his chair and his gaze drifts to where Spock’s pointed ears are burning.

“You never told me you play guitar, Bones.”

“Never came up, Jim,” McCoy replies just as quick. Up close, Spock can see how deep and watery blue his eyes are, and how distracting the sensation of a pounding heart can be. McCoy opens his mouth to speak again but seems to falter.

Similarly, Spock’s mind is suddenly blank—and not in a way that’s calming, but infuriating. Finally, he’s face to face with something he’s desired for quite a while, able to speak to and reach out and touch the object of his affections. And Spock can think of nothing to say.

Jim begins to laugh and pulls both Spock’s and McCoy’s attentions to him. “I should’ve known! You’re both hopeless, I should’ve known you two would be perfect together!” Jim stands suddenly and gathers his book bag over his shoulder. “I’ll leave you two be, have fun,” Jim advises before departing swiftly, his laughter carrying him out of the café.

Spock returns to staring at McCoy to find the other already watching him again.

“Never really expected this,” McCoy admits.

“Nor did I.”

“You, uh, don’t say much, do ya?”

Spock can feel the blush in his ears spread back to his cheeks with more fervor than he’s ever known. “You’re certainly one to talk, Leonard. We have in fact met before this, with ample opportunity for you yourself to approach me.”

McCoy scoffs. “I’m probably five years your senior, kid, with a failed marriage under my belt and a medical degree I do absolutely nothing with. Not exactly a shining pedigree.”

The words tumble from Spock’s lips before he can stop himself. “I am half human and half Vulcan and am considered an anomaly both here on Earth as well as on my home planet. Jim and Nyota Uhura are my only friends, and I am what many consider to be a ‘loner,’” Spock pauses thoughtfully. “Or perhaps, a loser.”

McCoy stares at him as though examining every detail of Spock’s face. “That mean you’re single?”

Spock sips at his coffee in lieu of answering at first. “It does indeed mean exactly that, Leonard.”

McCoy grins. “Something tells me you’re gonna drive me up a damn wall, Spock.” The look he gives Spock over the rim of his cup is nothing short of lustful. “And something tells me m’gonna love every damn minute of it.”

Spock decides after a moment’s consideration two things: first, that what McCoy has just said is meant to be a compliment, and the realization makes Spock feel hot all over. Second, Spock is almost certain that McCoy will be exceedingly illogical a large percentage of their time together, and Spock can’t find it in himself to mind in the slightest.

**Author's Note:**

> so in my mind, while i didn't expand on it in the course of the fic, spock and jim are still attending starfleet, but it's more of a typical college/university setting, like regular school, not futuristic space school. that said, this is still set in the canon timeline of the future. also, bones has a medical degree but never went anywhere with it, so jim is trying to get bones to join starfleet so they can be bffs in space together. basically, take canon, twist it a bit, and mash it up with your typical college!au, and you get this.
> 
> hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
